


Variations: Death and Dreams

by werpiper



Series: in the icing: Layers side stories [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Cousins, Gen, Hallucinations, Sleep, Spells & Enchantments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 20:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3395462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werpiper/pseuds/werpiper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Losing beloved family can be harder than losing oneself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Variations: Death and Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Contribution to a collection of fanworks to be given to William Kircher.

Bifur died on the fields of Azanulzibar, with an Orc's axe in his head.

Bifur did not die in battle. He survived, albeit changed, and answered the call of King Thorin. He went to reclaim the lost City of Erebor, where he had never been.

It was not much different from the time of war, or any other times either. Day passed to night, and night into day. Bifur was not, as he had expected, quiet in Mahal's Halls, awaiting the Second Making of the world. Instead he walked on roads or rode ponies, and slept in roadside campsites, in hostelries, in a hobbit's luxurious smial, in Elven halls and castles. His family were with him -- his young cousins Bombur and Bofur, dearer than brothers, closer than sons. He never saw his parents, and rarely saw Mahal. He travelled with the young hero-King, Thorin Oakenshield, and joined that fighting cohort with his boar-spear and centuries of tactics and tracking. He was shield-brother to Dwalin, who wore Azanulzibar tattooed upon his head, and confidant to Ori, of the scholarly line of Erebor. It was very fine as lives went, or even afterlives.

That distinction thinned to nothing in Elves' places. In Rivendell, Bifur found that his lack of Westron was no more obstacle than his lack of Sindarin or Quenya. Perhaps his death was even an advantage, as it meant it did not matter what he ate -- if he was dead he needed no nourishment, and the greenery tasted full of iron, like good meat. Though his companions might still be living, especially given how they complained, Bifur was certain it would nourish them well enough too. But the complaining was also all right. He liked the thought of his cousins living, and his shield-brother and his comrades and his King, liking and disliking things and having Dwarvish tastes, He had fought for Thror and died beside him, for Dwarvish heritage and against the servants of destruction. Living in the company of Thorin Oakenshield, picky eaters though they might be, was much better.

The next Elven place was Mirkwood, and that was hardly so much Elven as given over to evil things, which was different. The voices of that place were not incomprehensible or unspeakable; they were poisonous. The roadway was not subtle, but deliberately misleading. Bifur's living companions suffered grave difficulties upon it. They turned in circles upon themselves, saw impossible obstacles were none existed, or easy ways through what was not actually passable at all. But it is difficult to deceive the dead, who have already crossed a boundary that others could not yet know. Bifur tied a pennant to the boar-spear and led the way. When anyone turned or tarried, he planted the spear's heel in the ground and fetched them back. They did not try his patience. The dead have all the time in the world, especially when the living need them.

One day, they came to a river. One by one, they crossed it as best they could, with vines and branches overhead and stones and submerged logs below. Mostly they succeeded. Only Bombur -- lovely young cousin Bombur with his senses so sharp they could smell wild mushrooms, dowse fresh water, feed the full Company daily and well in the wilderness -- was overcome by the dreaming, drifting spirits of the water. Bombur of the flame-bright hair, Bombur the parent of beautiful children, Bombur whose beard could be braided back around into itself -- Bombur fell insensate by the bank, and it took all of Bifur's strength (and Bofur's, and Dwalin's, and Thorin's beside) to drag his mindless body from the water, to breathe air back into his lungs.

Bombur did not die, as Bifur dreaded, and in his own lonely death could not help but hope. Bombur dreamed. He murmured, Elvish dreams of woodlands, Dwarvish dreams of home, and any living creature's dreams of satisfied hungers and thirsts. Bifur was certain he would have known if Bombur had died, died truly and properly, or even the wavering kind of death Bifur experienced himself. They would have been company together. Not only together in Thorin's company, but in their own. Perhaps in Mahal's. But Bombur lived, dreaming alone, or in some stranger Company. Bifur missed him more than ever, more than anything. He held on to Bombur's cold, damp hand. The Company paused by the riverside, and sometimes Bifur knew what they discussed, and sometimes he did not. It did not matter.

When Dwalin came to him, Bifur smiled with gratitude. Dwalin was a soldier; he was strong, and would understand what had to be done. Bifur led Dwalin into the wood beside the road, showed him three good branches to chop down, and vines besides. Dwalin obeyed, good soldier that he was, and helped Bifur to build the travois. Bombur was heavy, but there was no cargo more important. When the travois was ready, Bifur took one side upon his own shoulder, and Dwalin took the other. All of the Company would take their turns, until Bombur was well enough again to walk on his own.

Bifur walked among them, alive or possibly dead. Thorin and his Company made room regardless, valuing him exactly as he was. They would keep his beloved cousin just the same: a Dwarf, a worthy person. Sometimes just a weight to be carried, perhaps, but then again, who among them could claim to always be otherwise? When Bombur woke, he would serve their cause as well. And meanwhile, Bifur -- alive or dead or whatever he was -- bent his strong back to this task, as he always had, and as he always would. For such is the strength and the will of their people: iron, or mithril, or diamond. It does not bend or break, nor can evil corrupt it. Like any will, it is subject to its lust and greed; like any lust and greed, it is subject to its love. So Bifur set himself beneath his cousin's weight, and when Bombur spoke again, Bifur wept with joy.


End file.
